


You Have No Control Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

by grandfatherclock, smokeandjollyranchers



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Fantasy Racism, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Torture, Warning: Trent Ikithon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 20:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokeandjollyranchers/pseuds/smokeandjollyranchers
Summary: Caleb Widogast has an infatuation with Essik Theylas, of Den Theylas and Shadowhand to the Bright Queen.Caleb Widogast is wearing a nice purple cloak, hair pulled back to reveal the sharp angles of his face.Caleb Widogast is staring with guilt-ridden eyes at a ghost, arrowhead tearing into his shoulder.Caleb Widogast is remembering, and remembering, andremembering—
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 37
Kudos: 390





	You Have No Control Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [@AnaliseGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/analisegrey/pseuds/analisegrey) for helping brainstorm concepts for this fic!
> 
> Title from the song [_History Has Its Eye On You_](https://open.spotify.com/track/1mGO8rwCE9zk7H06OxcU5m?si=OD79cTBrRuGjGclBSfoJ2A) by Lin-Manuel Miranda.

The day wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Just two hours ago, Caleb was staring in the mirror. His hair was brushed back, in a nice tie behind him, and the delicate angles of his pale face were on full display. The pale blue of his eyes glittered against the light streaming in from the shining tree Caduceus and Jester spent so _long_ enchanting, and they were more dramatic still against the slight but still _present_ shining dark makeup that accentuated his eyelashes. His hands were too still as he applied it to his face, and his breath was too even as he set it down, thinking about how this all still came so _easily _to him. He hadn’t allowed himself this in many years, and the beautiful man in the mirror tried for a halting smile, his soft lips curving up. Caleb stared, and then exhaled deeply, looking down at his hands clenched so tightly his nails were digging into his palms.

Just two _hours_ ago—

* * *

He’s… _nervous_. It’s such a normal fucking thing to feel that Caleb lets out a shuddering laugh, head lowering for a moment. He could delude himself into thinking it’s because of… because of the man in Rexxentrum—and Caleb _won’t _think that name, he doesn’t know _why_ it’s so important but his sick mind just _won’t_—or because of his numerous ghosts catching up with him, but he’s honestly had enough time to grapple with that fact. He knows if they were going to slaughter him in the Dynasty, they had _ample _opportunity while Caleb was off on his own, buying components and exploring the different shops in central Rosohna.

He’s nervous because… because of…

_Fuck_, this is so _pathetic_. He runs a hand through his hair, tucking a loose red strand behind an elegant ear. He’s nervous because of…. _Fuck_, the brittle organ that passes as his heart and pumps blood through his wretched body actually fucking _stutters_, and Caleb exhales, this breathless thing that could pass as a laugh. Like he could actually think for a moment that the reason he’s _staring _at himself and assessing his jaw isn’t because of coiffed white hair and an intricate silver mantle that glints in the light from the starry Rosohna sky. Like his thoughts don’t find themselves entangled in the long cloak swishing behind that man as he floats in the air, an arrogant and sure smile playing on those lips. Caleb is nervous because of dark eyes and a lilting accent that gets low with annoyance and more dynamic in cadence when he talks about dunamancy, hands splayed out of his cloak as he discusses theories and new spells and—

“_Hey_,” Beau calls behind him, and Caleb looks back, seeing her clad in a nice suit of suitable Kryn style and sensibility. She wears a long sleeveless blue cloak, more ornate with geometric designs in glittering purples and blacks than what she’d wear on a day-to-day basis, and long gloves that reach up to the crook of her elbows fitting snugly on her muscular arms. The colours suit her scarred brown skin well, and Beau smirks at him, nodding to the sleek new purple coat he wears over black breeches and an elegant layered shirt clad with glittering silver designs that evoke arcane runes. She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorway and watches him for a moment. A shit-eating smile plays on her lips and Caleb _grimaces_, knowing she’s read through him. “Impressing a fucker? A floating, arrogant, _dunamagic_ motherfucker?”

Caleb _stares_ at her with exasperation and her smile only widens. She wears blue around her eyes and Caleb looks to the shoulderpads, seeing the Bright Queen’s token pinned against the elegant cloth. It matches the one against his own and Beau narrows her eyes as she looks down to what he’s watching. “I know you’re suspicious of authority,” he says dryly, and Beau’s eyebrows furrow, understanding dawning on her expression as she opens her mouth to probably tell him not to _derail, motherfucker_, as he _grins_. “Like you would pass off a chance to flirt with Leylas Kryn, Beauregard. In fact, I think it would be hilarious to watch you try.”

Beau shrugs, seeming unperturbed, raising an arm to scratch at the back of her head. She got her undercut cleaned up for the event, Fjord and her styling each other’s hair, and she looks _sharp_, curious eyes watching Caleb’s every little move. “Yeah, she’s hot.” Beau tilts her head. “I’d flirt with her. She’s… fascinating, you know?”

Caleb nods in agreement, refusing to even _think _for a moment about how blasphemous he once would’ve found this conversation, the idea of seducing the leader of the enemy. The Umavi, the person Ik… the man in Rexxentrum once derided in a dinner they all had together as some sick facsimile of a family. _The bitch is going senile_, he snarled, and Astrid was too still beside him, a placid and empty smile on her face that didn’t reach her eyes. Nothing much did, those days.

“But I,” Beau continues, and Caleb doesn’t wince, he _doesn’t_, “can admit that to myself.” She stares at Caleb, an eyebrow raised.

Caleb _grimaces_, trying to think of something to say to the gentle judgement in her voice, to those searching and curious eyes. He just shakes his head, exhaling and feeling the rise and fall of his own chest more light than his own liking. _Fuck_, he doesn’t _enjoy _this fluttering in his chest, the way his thoughts drift to… drift to _Essik_, despite his best intentions. Despite his self-discipline. Despite this paranoia and their careful dance around each other, despite the way Essik seems to be constantly waiting to see how far deep Caleb’s ambition goes, just how much he would ask for. It’s all built up into this difficult and entangled web, and he’s… good at lying to himself. He can pretend this fascination is just scientific, a by-product of his desperate and instinctive desire to learn.

He’d be… _fuck_, he’d be lying.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He thinks of the last lesson Essik gave him, how those purple fingers rested on his as Essik passed him a quill. It was too long to be unintentional, and Caleb _knows_ his own lips curved into a pleased smile as Essik watched his reaction. The drow smiled and continued to scrawl arcane sigils into his spellbook beside Caleb in a companionable silence while they discussed different methods to arcane spell-crafting from the Dynasty and the Empire, and how that translated into inconsistencies when Caleb tries to transcribe. Essik seemed so _intrigued _by Caleb telling him about the greater emphasis Zemnian wizards as opposed to Common-speaking wizards tended to place on somatic gestures. Caleb was under no illusion that this information wasn’t being carefully catalogued by the Shadowhand to assess both possible future strategies against Zemnian wizards as well as to test Caleb’s own reliability, honesty, _usefulness_, but he gave the information anyway. Willingly. Essik was _watching_ him, and then—

Caleb doesn’t jump to the sound of the doorbell, but he does startle, back up straight as he looks behind Beau to the sound and shadow of Jester rushing for the door. Her boots thud against the hardwood as she sings an enthusiastic, _Hellooooooo, Essik_, and he smiles as she goes quick over the syllables of his name after stretching the greeting out. Caleb _ignores_ Beau’s smirk as he moves past her, his shoulder brushing against his as she swivels on her heel, following after him. He ignores her further still as she hisses, _Lover boy_, under her breath as Essik turns to him, his glittering cloak pooling to the floor as he turns to look at Caleb. His lips are curved into a smile, and his blue eyes run over Caleb’s outfit as the quirk of his lips widens. His mantle is as intricate as ever, curving and gorgeous around his shoulders, and he hums, light under his breath, _It’s nice to see you, Herr Widogast_.

Caleb exhales, and his smile is soft as he nods to Essik. Beau is _smirking _behind him and Caleb _ignores_ her. He just has to survive this ball where Essik will look like _that _and Caleb will have all these coalescing feelings dancing around in his head, whispering to _spy _and _watch _and _touch _and _flirt_ and _smile_. He _wants_ to spy, he _wants_ new avenues to get what he’s always wanted, but Caleb is realizing, as Jester giggles at Essik’s polite greeting, that he also wants to know what kind of drink Essik is fond of. Not for some future trade-off to some anti-Dynasty agent, but just to… just to know that. Just to know that about Essik. He wants to know where Essik lives not just to come knocking on his door the next time he requires something, but because… because he wants to _know_. He wants to _know_ Essik, and he absolutely lets none of this show on his face as they shake hands, Essik floating so he’s slightly above Caleb.

Their hands touch for a little too long, Essik’s cool against his warm, burnt fingertips, and Caleb _blinks_, nodding and averting his gaze for just a moment. Essik’s purple skin seems _warm _against these arcane _lights—_

“Hey, Essik,” Beau says, with the _utmost_ smugness, and Caleb doesn’t wince, he _doesn’t._

Maybe just a little, actually, but Beau’s arm slinging around his shoulders as she greets the Shadowhand is a great deal more comforting than he expected. It’s a continual surprise these days, and he wishes he was smart enough to know better. Essik’s eyes dance between them, and Caleb…

Caleb _smiles_. For just now, he indulges himself, and he talks to the Shadowhand.

* * *

He exhales, his breath all ragged.

Caleb tastes the _iron_ in his mouth, and he closes his eyes in that half-second he feels the pressure to the arrowhead against his skin, letting out a soft sound of pain at the sensation of it slicing through his fabric. He thinks about just two hours ago, thinks of the smile on Essik's face as they carefully exchanged pleasantries. The way the mantle perfectly curved around his shoulders, accentuating the arch of them. The way his eyes glittered against the light while Jester shook his hand up and down several times, asking coyly if he wanted a tattoo.

It’s funny, the things he remembers when he's bleeding, swaying on his feet as he finds himself bracing against a sure grip. Essik’s arms are cool, and Caleb is leaning into them from the force of the arrow tearing into his shoulder, causing his nice purple cloak to soak into red, all sticky and coarse. He stares into hateful brown eyes, the colour of tree bark from the pine trees that grew along the outskirts of Blumenthal, and watches the braid that trails behind that face in the whipping wind, as Beau rushes forward, her fists trembling with rage. Jester clasps her hand against her holy symbol beside him, eyes flashing green for a moment as she _hisses_ a curse in Infernal, and Caleb—

_Gottverdammt_ him, Caleb _stares_.

“I bet you don’t know me,” the assassin hisses, and they look _young_, almost as if they’re just a teenager. It’s strange seeing such fanatical hatred on such a young face, their slight body clad in gleaming silver armour as they come forth from the shadows. They seem to have no care for the fact that this is clearly a losing battle, the Shadowhand snarling in Undercommon in _fury _as he holds Caleb. They don’t even look away from Caleb’s sagging form, watching the red against the purple almost _hungrily_. Like Caleb’s pain is fulfilling a deep-seated hunger within them, and as their gaze finally meets Caleb’s as he looks _up_—

Caleb stands up straight, and pushes Essik back. Essik furrows his white eyebrows in confusion, and though he opens his mouth to speak, Caleb is already looking away, to the assassin. The intricacies of his clothes seem so stupid right now, his fluttering infatuation fucking _horrifying_, because he’s a _monster_, how dare he look at Essik? Beau is hissing a curse at the kid, looking angry and almost _frightened_ as she turns to face Caleb, and he feels a ridiculous amount of shame for letting himself stick around, letting himself be _cared_ for by this group of paranoid and loving loners.

Caleb watches that snarl widen, and he _remembers._

* * *

_It’s only an interrogation if you get an answer,_ Ikithon tells them, disinterested eyes looking down at the prisoner on the table. _If you get nothing out of it, then you’re simply cutting them to cut them._ _I don’t need you to inflict pain, I need you to get me answers. Prove you can._

_Prove you aren’t deadweight,_ Bren thinks, traitorous mind already running a thousand miles an hour. Next to him, Eodwulf’s gaze is fixed firmly on the ground. He’s already learned this particular lesson, and the stillness of his hands _terrifies _Bren. On the table, the drow pulls at the restraints. Testing them, their eyes bouncing wildly from face to face, trying to understand what’s happening.

Astrid watches him from across the table, and there’s a flash across her ever-dulling eyes. _You can do this_, she seems to say, before that _emptiness _settles back into her. Master Ikithon looks down at him, eyes intent and _cold_. He silently hands Bren a blade, thin and slender, and then returns them to where they were crossed behind him. _Begin_.

_Name the other members of your faction. _Bren speaks, voice steady and clear where his nerves _aren’t._ The drow watches him, an incredulous smile on their face, like they can’t believe a child is to do the work of the mage.

That look doesn’t last long. They find that Bren is _apt,_ that his fingers don’t shake as he _cuts_ into their skin, the blood pooling underneath them. They _snarl_ like it will somehow stop Bren from what he’s doing. Nothing is going to stop Bren, he leans into training, he leans into what Wulf had done, what plan he and Astrid had devised together, shaking hands clasped together under a blanket.

_Name your leader._

It’s hard to do _anything_ with the way Ikithon’s eyes watch his every move. Bren tries to focus on the task at hand, not the way the drow _screams_ as Bren clumsily hacks at cartilage with the blade. Ikithon tells him to wait, that there’s better tools for what he planned, and he calmly walks over to the cabinets in the back of this horrible little room.

_Name your leader._

Bren looks desperately to Wulf out of the corner of his eye, and Wulf looks at the skin flayed away from the drow’s arm, almost like he’s considering it. _At the joint_. Wulf hisses, timing it with the shutting of the cupboards. _It cuts easier at the joint._

_It_. Bren looks into their terrified eyes, and wonders if they can see the fear in his. _It. It. It. It. Believe it’s an it, believe it’s an it._

Ikithon returns, a bright platinum hatchet in his hands. The drow’s eyes _widen, _and the turn their terrified gaze to Bren. There’s _anger_ in their eyes. _You fucking infant, I tolerated you before—_

Bren takes the hatchet, and looks down at them. _Name your leader._

_You fucking Empire dog—_

Bren meets their eyes. _Name your leader._

The drow bares their teeth, and Bren thinks of the longbow they were found with, thinks of the custom arrows they found on their person, thinks of how vocal they are now—

He brings the hatchet down, and Wulf is right. There’s very little resistance through the elbow joint. The drow _screams,_ and Ikithon nearly looks pleased with him.

_Name your leader_. Bren says again, his voice steady where his pulse is _shattering_ his ribs. They howl, a wild look in their eyes as they turn on him. Blood torrents from their arm, and Bren can’t tear his eyes away.

_I swear by Landolir’s goddamn bow I’ll kill you! _they snarl at him.

Bren blinks, and Ikithon nods. _Landolir. Well done, Bren_.

_Fuck you, you fucking animal! You’ve been bred for death, you goddamn child!! I’ll kill you! Your life is mine now_—

But Bren is watching Ikithon, and his cold eyes are on the drow on the table. _We don’t need a mess, Bren._

Wulf and Astrid both stop breathing, and Bren blinks. He stares down at the drow, with their anger and their wild gaze, and that _sneer_ even as they bleed out. _I’m going to kill you._

_You can’t,_ Bren thinks as he takes a deep breath, as he casts, as the fire catches on purple skin and the screaming begins in earnest. _There’s nothing left to kill._

* * *

_I bet you don’t know me_.

They’re wrong, but Caleb can forgive—and _fuck_, just _thinking _the word _forgive_ makes his lips crack into this brittle facsimile of a smile as he watches that expression—the assumption. Their face is different, but they sneer the same, sneer the way they did before, in their other life. Caleb doesn't know their name, Bren didn't bother to outside _Inmate #46_, and he watches those glittering brown eyes, watches that next arrow streak into the air into his other shoulder. The force pushes him back, back into Essik, and Caleb doesn't let himself crumple against him, just _watching _the drow. "Go ahead," he murmurs, and he's intricately aware of the silver designs in his shirt being stained by the spreading red. It's fitting, he supposes, his magic always came at the cost of blood. Beau is staring at him, and then her eyes are _widening _as Caleb gives the drow the _weakest _smile. "I'm glad it's you."

"Don't be _glad_," they snarl, and there are _tears _in their eyes as Essik raises his hand, the languid smile that's usually on his lips curving into a truly… _intimidating _frown. He tightens his fingers and murmurs arcane words under his breath, laced with Undercommon. The little turns of phrase make dunamantic magic wholly unique to anything else Caleb has had the privilege to study, and Caleb thinks for a moment how just two hours ago he was thinking about their hands touching, thinking about their lessons where they traded secrets, exchanged little tidbits of information. This careful _fucking _dance, like he could ever deserve that, deserve to dance with Essik Theylas.

The kid is all held up, feet dangling as they hover in the air from Essik's entrapment spell, and all Caleb can think about is the Vollstrecker in that cell. He condemned her to death with a quick nod to the Shadowhand watching him with glittering eyes, and then Essik's fingers just, as easily as breathing, fucking _instantaneously_, clenched together into a fist, crumpling the body into a mangled corpse on the floor. Caleb shouts, _No_, terrified of a repetition of that horrible ritual, but Essik doesn't look him, a distant expression on his face as he gestures for his guards to arrest the… the _child_, oh gods, they're a _child._ Their braid is messy, and tears streaking down their cheeks as they gaze at Caleb with such _searing _hatred.

"Don't be _glad_, motherfucker," they gasp, their breath is shuddering. "I remember." They repeat that phrase, and Beau straightens her back, wincing as her gaze flits from the drow to Caleb. Their words finally give way for a choked sob as Essik lets up his spell, them being dragged back by the guards as they train their gaze on Caleb. "I remember, I remember, I fucking _remember_ what you did to me." One of the guards starts _casting_, the sigils so fucking familiar from when Essik casts it _himself_.

_Teleport_, Caleb thinks numbly, and he's already turning to Essik, opening his mouth to prepare his case. "_Please_," he whispers, his voice hoarse in the silence as the Mighty Nein just _watch _him. Beau crosses her arms, walking up stand beside Caleb and putting her hand on his shoulder. It’s just the most gentle fucking touch, and it makes him _blink _before he gazes back to Essik. Beau's presence didn't used to be such a comfort, but he _remembers _the hard work to get to _this_, all they've done to the point where they're… the word family is painful to think. It's _painful_, and he grits his teeth, and he _watches _Essik, lovely and careful as ever. "I was their torturer." He lets that last word sit in silence for a moment.

"_Oh_," Jester whispers, after a heartbreaking silence. He gazes to her, and her eyes are wide, a hand over her mouth. It's a horrible picture, seeing that crestfallen look on her face while she wears such an intricate dress, circular designs all along the purple gown that curves beautifully around her figure. He watches her exposed muscular arms clench in tension, and then she smiles at Caleb, this desperate and sad look that makes Caleb _wince_. He sucked the joy out of today, he sucked the joy out of _her_, his bullshit is about to become just another thing she thinks she has to carry. "Let me heal you, Cayleb." His name is still so _warm _in her mouth as she gently touches his shoulder, and then her eyes glitter as she curls her fingers in the fabric. "See, Fjord, _Mending _is so useful!"

Caleb ignores Fjord's retort, still looking at Essik. The healing feels as strange as ever, the sensation of the scraping of the arrows against his shoulder joint slowly easing in as Jester’s fingers grip his nice cloth. It feels _sickening _wearing these clothes, and he’s trembling just a little as he feels Jester’s magic clean out the tear, erasing the hot pulse of his own blood spilling down and soaking his shirt. The child is gone right now—and that’s what they _are_, despite how the hatred and _rage_ twisting their face as they gazed at him—and he _also _remembers. Remembers a drow on a table, white sheets stained in coarse reds as they screamed and _snarled_ far past when their voice went hoarse. Remembers a blade in his own hand.

_Fuck_, he wants to throw up, and he swallows the urge. He _remembers_, gods. He used a rusted _fucking _blade because he knew it would hurt more. He remembers a promise, remembers the life snuffing out of them. _Another broken person_, he thinks numbly, and gazes for a moment at the token of the Bright Queen’s blessing, no longer soaked in red after Jester’s ministrations. He thinks of how horrifying it must’ve been for the kid to mediate, to mediate and _remember_, to see their killer walking around Rosohna like he was welcome here, like he wasn’t a fucking _monster_. After everything that he did, betraying the Empire after all the broken bodies left on Trent Ikithon’s torture chamber. He thinks of the child, and thinks of how _wasteful _their trauma must’ve seemed in the face of all this. “It’s _deserved_,” he’s whispering, damned near _begging_. “Please, Shadowhand.”

Essik watches him for a moment, and Caleb can’t think about all the hands he’s revealing right now as he steps closer, staring at Essik’s contemplative and reserved expression. He needs this kid _released_, he needs them freed, it’s a fucking disgrace that Caleb breathes this open air while the child is about to find themselves in a hole not unlike the one Essik kept Yeza in, with a small cot and rags for clothing. For doing something so _just_. For trying to eradicate the world of Caleb Widogast. _Please_, he’s repeating.

Essik opens his mouth. Caleb prepares for the dance, prepares for the lilting back-and-forth where they leak information to each other through careful words, and instead widens his eyes as Essik just shakes his head. “No,” Essik says simply, and Caleb _blinks,_ mouth almost opening at the flat but not… not _unkind _tone.

“How is it,” Caleb says, after a moment where he breathes unevenly and Essik gently reaches forward, putting a featherlight hand on his shoulder before pulling back, “that they can be brought in for _attempted_ murder, but I, who have actually committed murder, am free?” Beau is _touching _his back, and he doesn’t look at her as she murmurs his name, staring at Essik with a hard expression. He wonders if his own face is as twisted with hatred as much as that child’s was. Hatred for himself. Hatred for the creature that wears his skin.

“That’s fucking _rough_,” Beau says, and she’s _pulling _Caleb back. He can hear the strain in her voice, and he _knows _a part of her is worried Essik might actually take Caleb’s case to heart with the way the Shadowhand is watching him. “Uh, sorry for the trouble, we should probably—” She cuts herself off, and looks around to Fjord, bugging out her sharp blue eyes a little as she tries to think of a way out of this, out of _here_. “We’re real sorry for the inconvenience, must not have been what you expected when you offered to escort us to the Bright Queen’s Ball.” She winces, and looks to Jester’s face as Jester studiously watches her feet, freckled blue ankles arched in those lovely purple heels. “I don’t…” Her voice trails off.

Essik sighs, but it’s not sharp. He’s being gentler than he _should _be, than he _has _to be, and Caleb wants to snarl that this is an act, the charming creature in front of him who wears this face is an _act_. He’s not refined, and he’s not interesting. He’s an animal, he’s a savage monster that needs to be locked _up_, needs to be muzzled and sedated and chained, and _fuck_, how _fucked_ is it that Master Ikithon had the right idea after all, why can’t they see Trent had the right idea after all? “I can’t placate your guilt, Caleb.” Caleb doesn’t know what to do with the way Essik says his name. He thought he might’ve two hours ago but he _doesn’t_, now_._ “I’ll see the intricacies of their situation on its own merits.” He pauses for a moment, and then bows his head. “I’ll be late to the ball, you’ll have to excuse me.” Caleb opens his mouth to speak, but Beau’s fingers are _digging _into his arm. “Perhaps,” he continues as he turns around, “it’s time to face some of these shadows that chase you.”

Caleb stares after Essik longer than he should’ve.

* * *

They ended up going to the ball, and it’s fucking… _entirely _because Caleb insisted on it.

Jester gave him a watery smile, and Caleb hated himself in that moment as her fingers gripped tightly on the expensive silk adorning her body. She was the one who was most excited for this, and they all knew it. _We don’t have to go_, Jester whispered, so thoughtless in her decency as she gazed at him. Nott nodded, anxiously tugging at one of her braids, tied up in gorgeous yellow ribbons. Jester spent a good hour fixing her hair up, curling it eagerly before Nott changed her mind, ranting that the braids were better and that _if it ain’t broke, and it ain’t broke, then don’t fix it!_ They were so _eager_, shopping and talking to luxury store owners. Spending money easily was such a foreign experience for the both of them, Nott never having much money as a halfling and Jester kept alone in her room. Caleb trailed behind them, and watching Nott’s bemused face as she realized she didn’t have to steal something, that endearing dance between smugness and mild disappointment was… enchanting.

He’s already ruined their day, but he won’t ruin it _further._ Beau kept trying to catch his eye and Caleb kept avoiding her discerning gaze, telling them he needed to talk to Essik afterwards anyway. Beau’s face _twisted_ at that, but they were getting so _late_, Caduceus pointed out it would be so rude to be so _late_ to their first ball here in Rosohna. They entered those elaborate double doors with enthusiastic fanfare, and though Nott lost herself in drinking the sparkling wine that she immediately spit out and complained about—_fucking Rosohna wine is bullshit!—_and Jester grabbed Fjord for a dance with a pained expression on her face after Beau gave their greetings to the Bright Queen—and _flirted _too, Caleb couldn’t find himself in him to be smug as the advisor flushed—she stuck with him.

He _hates_ this. “Go dance with a beautiful woman, Beauregard,” he hisses, crossing his arms and leaning against a pillar as he watches the dance floor. Beau is beside him, the two of them in this little alcove, and he lets out this breathless little laugh. It sounds a little weak in the air, against the subtle music of the refined musicians up on the platform opposite the Bright Queen to the right of them all. Caleb hardly remembers greeting her. “Rub elbows, I know Dairon hopes you can glean some information about the upper ranks of Kryn nobility tonight.” He knows dangling Dairon in front of Beau is a little unfair, can tell by her _scowl _as she watches him, muscles clenching as he says that name, but _fuck_, he’s a little _desperate_. He doesn’t need Beau out here mitigating his pleas in front of Essik, he doesn’t need her _protection _from himself. He tosses her a bracelet, and Beau raises her eyebrow at it. “You can inconspicuously _Detect Magic _with it,” he murmurs, hoping one of his little toys he’s been working on will capture her attention. Beau’s eyebrows _raise_. “Go be an Expositor, Beauregard.”

“… _Fucker_,” Beau finally says, and she waits until his gaze is on her cheek between her left eye and her nose. Her nose ring glitters in this warm light, and the brown of her skin is practically _glowing_. The intricacies of her suit make her look important, look impressive, and Caleb can tell from the reaction on some of the other women’s faces as they throw teasing looks Beau’s way over bare shoulders that they _notice_ it. “I _want_ to be an Expositor, I _want _to get access to helpful information about the missing beacon, and I _want_ to do it with _you_.” She holds up the bracelet. “Thank you.” She lets it sit in silence until Caleb nods, acknowledging her. She taps the circlet disguised as a choker around her neck. “This group makes me better, you make me better. And I want you to get better too.” She stresses every word. “Better doesn’t include begging Essik to let you rot in a jail cell.” The judgement is not unkind, but it’s _there._

“Beauregard,” he says, listening to the syllables of her name in his lilting, Zemnian tongue. This woman who has become something like family—and he thought that word, he really did, he _hates_ how natural this word is, like _sister_ could be applied—is watching him, her eyebrows creased in _concern_. “I don’t… I’m not…” He fumbles as he clenches his jaw, crossing his arms and threading his brunt calloused fingers very lightly over his covered arms. Beau watches the movement and he swallows audibly. “That kid was consecuted, and I… and I hurt them very badly. And they deserve my death. They deserve their justice.”

“I know,” Beau whispers, and she winces, head tilted for a moment as they listen to light percussions of Kryn music. “A lot of people deserve a lot of things. I want to end this war, Caleb, I’m sick of poor people dying in the strongholds on both sides. And I want you to help me. And I want to make it so no drow is… is tortured by a _kid_ ever again.” She gives him an intent look, and then exhales, shaking her head. Her tied up brown hair loosens a little, and he watches the strands become loose, framing her brown face. “Tell me you don’t care about your own guilt as much as you care about stopping this, and I’ll stop needling you like a bad dream.”

Caleb blinks, and then blinks once more. What she’s saying makes _sense_, she’s making _sense_, and she’s already putting on the bracelet, pressing down on the arcane sigil on one of the blue beads before lowering her hand and _blinking _at the crowd. _Oh_, she mouths to him silently, eyes glittering because she’s already _seeing _things, already pulling apart the threads of all these hidden and intricate stories that breathe in this room. He nods jerkily, because she’s _right_, Beau is right where he’s being stupid and sentimental and irrational, and his fingers seem to be _digging _into his clothed arms, they really are. “Nothing matters more than stopping the war,” he says, and he swears his own voice is nearly inaudible.

Beau watches him for a moment. “Redemption doesn’t have to be a jail cell,” she says, walking past him to clasp his shoulder for a moment. Her touch isn’t as warm as his own heated skin, but it feels so _bracing _in that moment. “Redemption can look like making sure no more drow die on Trent’s”—she’s _fearless _with his name, fearless in a way Caleb isn’t, fearless in a way he adores about her, and he _does _adore her, _does _adore Beauregard—“creepy torture chamber.” His lips quirk up weakly, and Beau smiles at him softly, more softly than she ever would’ve when they met in Trostenwald. “You’re a good friend, Caleb.”

He watches her determinedly walk over to one of the women eyeing her, lips curving up into a charming smile, and Caleb thinks for a moment what Beau must have _seen_ with _Detect Magic _to target her, choose her. She’s extraordinary, the woman just _melts _into her grip as Beau invites her for a dance, and Caleb blinks at them for a moment, blinks at the gown that swishes before turning away.

He made a promise to Beau, and he’s going to… _keep _it, he _is. _He’s not going to make a useless martyr of himself to indulge his own bullshit. _Still_, he feels his own heart clenching with disgust as he catches a reflection of himself in a shimmering wine glass.

He needs to talk to Essik.

* * *

Essik, of course, Shadowhand to the Bright Queen and revered member of the reputable Den Theylas, arrives fashionably late, his ensemble looking as unbothered as it had when he first came in to the Xhorhouse. Caleb's eyes trace over his frame as he floats along the other side of the huge ballroom, nodding his head to greetings from others who flock to meet him, and he looks… _fine_. Caleb doesn't want to think about what the way he sinks his shoulders in relief _means_, as Essik reaches out a hand from the glittering expanse of his beautiful cloak to shake a hand. Caleb’s smart enough to see through himself, and so he abandons _that_ trailing thought as he watches Essik continue to the Bright Queen's platform, gliding up and bowing in front of her while Leylas Kryn smiles, clad in her gorgeous intricate white gown and jeweled headpiece sitting atop the crown of her head. They exchange some words, Leylas quirking up her lips a little as Essik continues to _talk_.

Caleb really doesn't know what he'll do if Essik doesn't make his way over to him. Well. That's actually a damned lie, he _knows _what he would do, but walking up to the Shadowhand in the midst of all these discussions with very important people in order to persist in needling him about the assassin—_child_, he thinks, his heart seizing, _just a child_ _now_—after all the hands Caleb has already revealed today is… certainly a choice. A choice whose cost is _worth _it, though, and he straightens his back from where he leaned against the pillar, fixating an absolutely _charming_ smile on his lips as he takes on step forward—

And _freezes_, because Essik Theylas is _gliding _to him. He's cutting through the dance floor, the cloak glittering under the warm hues of the chandeliers as he comes forward, and Caleb watches the fabric of it, watches it shimmer like a vibrant, unknowable starry night. It reminds him a little of the beacon, of the depthlessness he felt around him as he reached for the _mote_ in that haze, and he tenses his shoulders as Essik stops in front of him. Caleb has to tilt his head up a little as Essik's eyes trail over his figure, and maybe two hours ago he would've tilted his head, maybe two hours ago he would've curved his lips into a knowing, _purposeful _smile. Two hours ago, he could've been a _person. _"Herr Widogast," Essik says, and his voice is all soft as it drags over that name.

Caleb closes his eyes for a moment, a little too long to be simply a blink and a little too short for it to be prolonged into a matter worth commenting on. Essik is raising an eyebrow at what must be a truly bemused expression on Caleb's face, and Caleb winces almost imperceptibly as Essik leans against the alcove Beau was occupying earlier. He can _see _Beau now, sees Beau shoot him a concerned look where she continues to dance with that lady in the ornate blue, and he gives her a small nod and what he hopes is a comforting smile. Beau _narrows_ her eyes at him, but then directs her attention away, and though Caleb knows she's still watching, still has his back, the… the _trust _there is startling. It makes something like hope expand in his chest. "They don't deserve to be jailed." He keeps his voice as far from _emotional _as he can manage. "I don't wish to press charges."

"And that is noted," Essik says smoothly. Caleb can see other people looking curiously at the two of them, some of them watching Essik with a knowing smile, and Caleb might've felt a flush, if he weren’t so _tired_ and afraid for this _child_ right now. The thought of their slight frame—and their frame _is _slight, the shining armour didn't manage to conceal that—in that heavily guarded prison with the dark so foreboding it’s like a stifling blanket, is horrifying, and Caleb tries to show that in his face, in the crease of his eyebrows as he watches Essik’s eyes trace over his pale face. “They acted aggressively in my presence, Herr Widogast”—that sounds _distant _suddenly, and Caleb can’t tell if it’s Essik’s careful intonation of the title or his own anxiety—“and I hope, in all the trust that I have afforded you, that you trust me to do my job.” He isn’t even being _snarky_, he’s gazing at Caleb with a soft smile hesitant on its lips, and Caleb could just _sink _into this, couldn’t he?

He exhales through his teeth, looking around for discerning eyes and ears as he whispers under his breath, “I’m worried you’re going to do your job very well.” Essik’s eyes where they also searched the crowd before _snap _to Caleb’s face, and Caleb lowers his shoulders where they were tensed, trying for an open and genuine expression on his face. It’s hard, it’s so _hard_, but Essik will take a calm and calculated mask over reckless guilt. Essik will _trust_ the mask over Caleb’s own self-hatred taking control of his mouth and trying to damn him. “I would just… ask that you allow some kind of community service over a strictly penal sentence.” He crosses his arms, and tries not to run his hands over his covered, scarred arms. “Their case is… their case is _very _sympathetic, and I just hope you take it into account.”

Essik nods. “I will.” Caleb stares at that abrupt response, and Essik exhales, his own shoulders dropping a little as he comes closer to Caleb. Their intimacy right now would be startling if it weren’t for this insane situation. Two hours ago—_just two hours ago_, his sick mind thinks hysterically—he would never have allowed himself this, would’ve buried it in the mundanities of his and Essik’s transactional and careful relationship. Essik is raising his hand, resting it on Caleb’s shoulder, and Caleb _stares_ where the cloak parts, the darkness rippling away to reveal a cuffed, covered arm with elegant, ringed fingers that rests on his layered shoulder where the arrows were once embedded. “I can tell you want a good resolution to all this,” Essik murmurs, and his voice is so _sympathetic_. “You want to fix this, don’t you?”

Caleb’s throat feels dry, and he swallows, letting the question sit in silence as Essik watches him. The light flares on them for a moment before cascading away and Essik’s hair looks fucking _angelic_, glowing and perfect. His purple skin reflects the light radiantly and his cloak shimmers, making him look like some kind of daydream. “I want to,” he confesses, and he winces. “If I could… talk to them, or if I could give them a favour”—_you and your damned favours_, the creature under his skin crows—“or something to ease the suffering I caused them in their last moments…” Blood was leaking into his fingernails when he was done, and he gazed so _coldly _at the mangled body afterwards. The thought of his gaze travelling of the wrecked form makes him sick now. “I want to fix this,” he whispers, using Essik’s own words.

Essik sighs. “Herr Widogast? You _can’t _fix this.” Caleb stares at him, eyes wide and stricken, and Essik’s grip on his shoulder _tightens_, his fingers almost digging in. “You can’t fix this, you can’t fix _them_, and they… they will try to kill you again. They would rather _die_”—he says _die _quietly, nearly almost mouths it, and Caleb hates himself as he watches Essik’s mouth—“than have you see them in another cage. If you want to do something about it, you do what you think you have to do in your part in this conflict.” Caleb blinks at the _neutrality _of that sentence, and Essik just shrugs. “You’re too easily manipulated in this state for our little dance.”

Caleb _flushes_, and raises his hand, running his blackened fingers through his hair as he tries to think of a retort. “I…” _Gottverdammt_, Caleb was ready to sell his freedom away, and Essik was… was protecting him, in that way Caleb really doesn’t deserve. “Danke,” he murmurs, because his jaw is clenching right now but he knows, someday, somehow… he _knows_ he’ll find a way to be grateful.

Essik smiles, and Caleb thinks about how _close _they are, Essik’s face so near his. “Let this thread go, Caleb.” His name sounds like something less ruined in Essik’s accent, and finds himself leaning closer, as Essik’s fingers slowly loosen on his shoulders and… start to _move_, trailing up to the crook of his neck. Once, Caleb might’ve perceived it as a threat, but the touch is comforting, the sensation cool and bracing against his heated skin further warm from how worked up he is. “Just let this child go, and let others try to heal their rage.” His voice is so soft, and Caleb’s eyes trace over his face, trying to search for _something_. He has no idea why—_lie, a damn lie_, he thinks, eyes flitting to those _lips_—but Essik’s grin widens.

“… I’m not good at letting things go,” Caleb says, after a moment. He winces and doesn’t hide it, letting Essik… see him. This is probably such a bad idea, one that he will reprimand himself for later when he’s less raw, but he takes a step into Essik’s space, smiling up at him while Essik’s hand slowly runs through the hair at the nape of Caleb’s neck. His eyes are a little wide and he’s sure his expression is a little wild, but he bites his lower lip and allows that flush he’s been suppressing for weeks now around Essik, playing at coy all this time, to finally bloom over his face. His intentions could not be clearer and this is _such _a_ bad_ idea.

“Well,” Essik says, and his voice is softer now, coloured by amusement. He raises his other hand and Caleb watches the graceful arc of his arm with bright eyes, staring at the soft shimmer of the cloak and the gleaming of the mantle. Caleb blinks at the outstretched hand, for a moment uncomprehending of his intention, and Essik exhales, this breathless little laugh that makes something both expand and contract in his heart all at once. Instantaneously, like the evocative power of a _Fireball_ tearing apart bodies to ruin. Like a butterfly’s trembling wings against a particularly powerful gust of wind. “You could start by dancing with me.”

Caleb wants to keep _pushing _at this thread, pushing at this problem until all the variables are defined and the calculations make sense. He wants to fix this mistake like he wants to fix many others and it’s not in his nature to just… trust other people with this burden. He wants to demand a meeting with the assassin, but as Essik watches him, hand still out, Caleb knows that’s… very, very selfish and very, very disrespectful. He can’t force himself into this situation of which Essik has cast him out, and he swallows once more, giving the man in front of him a helpless smile as he reaches for that hand. Essik’s hand is so _soft_ and those rings are a welcoming sensation against his rough fingers_. _“Okay,” he murmurs, and his flush _deepens_.

Essik’s _grins_ and Caleb widens his eyes as Essik _pulls _him close, finally settling onto the floor to set his other hand on Caleb’s waist. Normally their touches are featherlight, deniable, but Essik’s grip on him only _tightens _as Caleb leans close, following his lead as he effortlessly pulls Caleb onto the dance floor. He catches Beau’s eye through this all, and her expression is a little _gobsmacked_, mouth open for a truly hilarious moment before she _grins _at him, dipping the drow woman in her arms before pulling her close. Essik’s humming under his breath to this song, this delicate little sound, and Caleb listens to him, listens to the beautiful cadence of his voice. “You look beautiful,” he says, as he catches Caleb’s gaze.

Caleb smiles at him. “You’re always beautiful.” Essik’s teeth are perfect as his smile widens, and Caleb has to resist the urge to come close, to graze his nose against Essik’s as he whispers against him, their lips against each other. There’s something about the panic setting in that makes him _want_, and he blinks.

Essik continues to hum under his breath, looking _very _pleased with himself. “You know.” His voice is casual, and his hand on Caleb’s waist tightens. “In their first life, they were quite talented with a longbow.” Caleb smiles weakly, thinking of their anguished, young face. “You’re lucky they’re so young now.” Essik watches him. “That must mean something, that you’re lucky.”

_It means the world is obscene_, he doesn’t say. The way he quirks up his lips is a small, fragile thing. “Lucky,” he repeats, and exhales. “Perhaps.” He watches Essik for a moment, and he’ll hate himself for this later, but he leans close, head against Essik’s shoulder. Essik stills for only a moment before continuing to lead their dance. If he were less tired, he would not have, and if he were less sick with disgust for himself, he would not have. He can tell a flush is working its way onto Essik’s face too, and wonders if Essik considers himself very lucky. “Thank you for everything.”

“It…” Essik falters, and Caleb thinks for a moment about how he made the Shadowhand falter. “It was my honour,” he murmurs, and Caleb sighs, thinking about the… about the _rawness_ of it. He thinks about it for one more moment, and then once more.

Then he closes his eyes, and continues to follow Essik’s movements. 

**Author's Note:**

> I know that we can win  
I know that greatness lies in you  
But remember from here on in
> 
> History has its  
Eyes on you
> 
> —Lin-Manuel Miranda, [_History Has Its Eye On You_](https://open.spotify.com/track/1mGO8rwCE9zk7H06OxcU5m?si=OD79cTBrRuGjGclBSfoJ2A).


End file.
